


i can write you no sonnets, nor sing sweet songs

by manticoremoons



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (jon's milkshake also has a lot of fans), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Universe, Courting Rituals, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jealousy, Leadership, Mutual Pining, POV Third Person Limited, Romance, Smut, added a little something, and all sorts of things that are apparently hard to find, and smart and noble, apparently, bobby b just has one of those faces, but he do, dany likes her men a little rough but tender too, dany's milkshake brings the boys to great hall, defiling ned stark's property, five plus one-ish, he thinks he's got no game, jon's got no game, moves away in the middle of 804, my bbs galbraith and benfred are clearly kismet, yes my fancast for wylis is totally paul addy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-18 06:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20634944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticoremoons/pseuds/manticoremoons
Summary: After the Great War against the army of the dead, the northern lords realise there's a beautiful and brave warrior queen in need of a husband in their midst. Jon has a lot of thoughts about this turn of events.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **IN MY DEFENSE**, I _did_ in fact open my laptop to start finishing the next couple of chapters of _Don’t Call Me (Maybe)_ but then, while on a break, I **[started reading this post on reddit](https://www.reddit.com/r/freefolk/comments/d2hihr/season_8_plot_hole_no_96448/)**. And I was like: _I’ve got to write this because it’s bloody true, and yet one more missed opportunity!_ **So, I did**. ([Read the post for context tbh](https://www.reddit.com/r/freefolk/comments/d2hihr/season_8_plot_hole_no_96448/)). And it was supposed to be a 1k comedy of cute misunderstandings and Dany being surrounded by all these funny northern lords trying get _in_, and Jon not having it at all. But then it turned into this.  
This diverges from canon at 8x04, the moment where we see Dany sitting looking lonely and understandably grieving (before Varys gives her that dirty look he gave her and they make her have crazy eyes). I mostly included the names of northern dudes that appear in the books or the games. The show never bothered with most of them, so as far as I’m concerned, they’re alive in that ‘verse. I just wanted to bring a bit of sweetness and humour into a canon-verse that disappointed us. So, I hope someone likes it as well.
> 
> I played with the times, since everything seemed to happen daily in season 8. Jon avoids Dany for about three weeks after he finds out the secret so it’s a good long while. Then the Long Night, and in the week after is the funeral pyres and celebration feast, and the events of this story take several weeks to a month. No beta for this, so praying I caught the mistakes. I don’t own shit.
> 
> The sonnet extract is _Whoso list to hunt_ because everyone always needs some Thomas Wyatt pining for his very-married (at the time) friend Anne Boleyn. _So much pining_.

_… The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,_  
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.  
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind  
_Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore_  
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,  
Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.  
_Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,_  
_As well as I may spend his time in vain._  
_And graven with diamonds in letters plain_  
_There is written, her fair neck round about:_  
_Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,_  
_And wild for to hold, though I seem tame._  
**_—Thomas Wyatt_**

**I**

“Go and be with him, darling Missandei,” she said with as warm a smile as she could manage, her lips pulling over her teeth like a grotesque mask in a mummer’s play.

“But I don’t wish to leave you alone,” Missandei insisted, her eyes heavy with sympathy and that soft kindness she’d always had. “You _shouldn’t_ be alone.”

“I’m all right—I swear it. Go, enjoy yourself, and be with your…” a mischievous pause. “Your dear _friend_, Grey Worm. He fought with honour and impossible bravery during the Long Night. He deserves to spend this one with the one he loves most.”

Still hesitant to leave, Missandei acquiesced with a slight nod. She took Grey Worm’s hand, waving even as she turned away, joy radiating from every part of her as her lover tugged her close to him to sit in an alcove away from the noise of the main festivities.

Dany sat back in the ornate chair and tried hard not to let the anguish hurtling through her body show on her face. She blinked back the onset of tears from her smarting eyes, biting on the inside of her cheek to trap any sobs that might leak out, doing her best to just keep breathing no matter how much it hurt to do so. _She must not weep._

This was a time to _celebrate_.

To rejoice in life and in winning an impossible war, the_ Great War_. To pay tribute to those who had sacrificed their lives and to toast to those who had endured. They had all looked Death in the eye and come out of the ashes alive—it was no small thing, that. She knew it better than anyone. But her heart ached, heavy as a stone in her chest.

There had been so much death. Too much. She’d stood by the funeral pyres and whispered every single name of every single one of her people, now lost to the Night Lands. A pitiful reward for their bravery in fighting a war that wasn’t even theirs because she asked them to. In crossing the Narrow Sea _because she’d asked them to_. Her eyes itched, and swallowing thickly, she did her best not to cry. She wouldn’t cry. _Mustn’t_. Not here in front of this crowd.

She gazed in a half-unseeing daze at the revellers loitering about in Winterfell’s main hall. A wildling here and there, tottering on their legs, as they broke into bawdy songs with one another and shared raucous tales. The northerners and some of the remaining Vale-men, a little less ribald and boisterous, were overcome with delight too. Everyone seemed determined to clean Winterfell out of the last of their ale and the bitter northern wine they all seemed to love. Amidst the crowd, she found only a few of her own—the Dothraki celebrated victories and honoured the dead the way they did anything else—in the open air where the stars could witness. Even in this cold, harsh, and unwelcoming land, they would follow their own ways. The Unsullied, disciplined as they tended to be, had partaken in the burial rites and opted to celebrate their fallen more sedately in their camp without.

_Not that Lady Stark would’ve wanted any of them in her hallowed halls_, Dany thought with a sour crease to her lips. When she’d requested that a pot of mutton and beef stew be taken out to those who wished to celebrate beyond the keep’s walls, she may as well have suggested that Drogon burn down Winterfell, the way Sansa Stark had glared and pouted. She’d made sure to grumble, within Dany’s hearing, about how Winterfell’s stocks were nearly empty and _oh, what an onerous burden it was to have these ill-bred foreigners here where they didn’t belong_.

Dany had gritted her teeth at the flagrant discourtesy.

She’d wanted to lash out to put Sansa in her place. To be fair, there had been many moments when she’d been close to doing so in her time at Winterfell.

But she hadn’t. She’d made herself patient, listened to Tyrion’s caution, felt herself desperate to be as good to Jon’s family as she could with the foolish hope that perhaps… _just maybe_—

She shook her head. That was a pipe dream now.

The truth was, ever since Viserion had passed from the Night King’s blade… so much of her fire had started to falter, petering out like the _arakhs_ of the Dothraki had on the battlefield two nights ago. Even worse, she was so often fatigued since arriving North. It was difficult to summon the energies to fight for respect and rebuke every offense as she used to do so easily before. And whenever she tried, it often seemed that no one in her council stood with her, that they would look at her askance.

She was a queen yet, now more than ever, all she felt was like a little girl. Tired, and afraid, and alone in a pit of lions and wolves, spiders and snakes that apparently despised her. 

It was no secret that northerners did not take well to foreigners, Jon and Jorah had forewarned her. But Dany had—perhaps stupidly—_hoped_. She’d hoped that after fighting alongside these people, to protect their lands and safeguard their children that these northmen would soften. Open themselves a little.

She’d been foolish indeed.

She sighed and forced herself to take a sip of watered wine. It tasted sour but at least it took away the vague feeling of nausea she’d been sitting with the entire day.

Wishing that she’d opted to stay outside where she might feel at home instead of sitting here alone in a room full of strangers, Dany gripped her hands together until her knuckles turned white, thankfully hidden by the high table. She must not betray any weakness. Not in this place.

Most of her fingers were swollen and covered in cuts and bruises. Between her handling a blade for the first time in her life in a desperate bid to stay alive on the battlefield and the time she spent in the icy snow after Ser Jorah fell, her gloveless fingers had been near frozen black.

Her blood-riders had found her holding her beloved Bear in her arms, Drogon and Rhaegal’s mourning cries echoing above and filling her with heavier sorrow. She’d not wanted to leave him there in the cold. The man who’d given his life to protect her, to stand by her side—it felt wrong to leave him there.

But they’d dragged her away eventually, to a waiting Missandei and a lukewarm bath in the battered part of the castle that was still standing.

She’d not seen Jon for over a day after that, until this morning at the funeral for all the dead.

And that had hurt, opening wounds she did not even know she had. That he had not thought to come to her, to comfort her, to even offer a hug or small thanks, _anything_. When she’d stepped forward to light Ser Jorah’s pyre, it was the first time he’d even directly looked at her since before the Dead arrived. And even then, it was just to nod.

Dany bit the inside of her cheek, bile rose up her throat and she had to pinch the soft flesh of her thigh to stop from doing something childish like crying. She’d cried enough over Jon Snow—or should she call him Aegon—in the days before he told her why he’d started shunning her company at every turn. Why he’d stopped sneaking into her chambers to nuzzle her awake, and kiss her until her body quaked with pleasure, until she was ready to beg for him to take her and never stop—and let her do the same to him. Just as they did on the boat from King’s Landing, and the week-long journey from White Harbour.

Now _she_ _knew_, and he was colder, still. As cold as this miserable clime and its people. To her, at least.

Watching him now with his raucous friends, he was more comfortable. Tormund slapping him on the back and raising his horn of something that smelled foul, even from this distance, to toast to Jon Snow and his bravery and his swordsmanship and his dragon-riding skills and his king-hood and his good health and the “power of his little pecker” and anything else he could think of. Jon would blush, fetchingly, every time but take the praise in his stride.

She couldn’t even be angry to see others admiring him just as she did. On many nights aboard her ship to White Harbour he’d spoken of his secret fears, the feelings of inadequacy and loneliness that had haunted him his entire life due to his bastardy. The constant burden of being the outsider, a feeling she’d known for much of her life.

But he was changing now, she could see it. Perhaps it was the still-secret knowledge that he wasn’t base-born. Or maybe it was the joy and freedom of finally defeating the Others. Whatever the case, there was a new lightness to Jon, a glimmer of confidence that looked well on him. She’d never cared about his birth. Whatever his name, she respected the man he chose to be regardless.

She watched him while trying not to look as though she was. His face wreathed in the widest smile she’d ever seen, his head thrown back in good cheer, the way his throat worked as he swigged more ale. With the fresh bruise on his cheek, and his tousled hair struggling to escape from the knot at the nape of his neck, there was a tiresome comeliness to him. He looked like a warrior but soft and prideful with victory. There was a time mere moons ago when she’d looked upon his face while he slept and felt she might be content to spend the rest of her life doing just that, just being with him, and she’d be happy beyond measure.

However, everything was different now. Everything felt uncertain and she knew not where she stood with him. All she could tell was that it wouldn’t be like it was, given how determined he was to shun her still. He wanted nothing to do with her, it was obvious now.

Mayhap hearing the truth had only given him the perfect excuse to act the way he’d truly felt all along. All the candle-lit nights on the ship seemed little more than an ephemeral dream, a figment of a young girl’s heart. A _memory_. They could never go back there again, and it seemed she was the only one who might wish to. Jon was clearly ready to move on.

There would be plenty of people lining up to help to do just that.

Even now she could see some of the ladies of the north, one of Manderly’s grand-daughters with her emerald hair flowing down to her slender waist, and a few sloe-eyed wildling women eying him with obvious desire. He would be quite the catch even if he wasn’t a king. Anyone could see it. She didn’t want to acknowledge the blaze of possessive jealousy that the mere thought ignited in her. She couldn’t play the dragon with him anymore, hoard him away like precious treasure the way she did on the boat, and keep him for herself.

_He wasn’t hers to keep._

Her heart ached beneath her ribs, a new grief clawing at her flesh to escape. She put her hand there as though to contain it, to press it back, to deny it until she was in a space where she could let it out. When she felt a solid warmth settling by her feet, the heavy weight of Ghost blanketing her, only then could she breathe through it. She reached out to run her fingers through his pale fur, much cleaner than it was after the battle, and comforting in its own way.

Gods, she’d been so foolish to _hope_. Hadn’t Viserys taught her that she could believe in no one but herself? Hadn’t life taught her the same time and again?

Shaking her head at her weakness—_he always made her so damned weak_, she made to stand up. She’d spent enough time here, surely. She wanted nothing more than to return to her rooms, and snuggle into her bedclothes with Ghost, who’d taken to slipping into her rooms at night, and try her best not to dream anymore. But then a cheerfully cautious voice stopped her.

“My Queen, please allow me to introduce myself to you.”

She turned to find a rather portly man with a scruffy grey beard wearing wrinkled but well-tailored clothing before her. He still wore a burnished bronze gorget on his chest, which was stylised three sentinel trees painted a faded green. She recognised his face from some of the meetings prior to the Long Night, one of the northern lords. Truehart? Tale—

“I am Ser Leobald Tallhart, castellan of Torrhen’s Square,” he said with a courteous bow. He then gestured to a tall blond man who couldn’t have been more than five-and-twenty. He had several welts on the left side of his face and his right arm was in a sling over his shoulder—he had obviously fought in the battle. Dany sent him a gentle smile, they were all of them battered and bruised by this terrible war. “May I also present to you my dear nephew, the heir of Torrhen’s Square, Lord Benfred.”

The man offered her a crooked smile, and bowed, much lower than his uncle. “It is my honour to meet you, Queen Daenerys.”

“And mine as well, my lord. Thank you for your bravery on the battlefield.”

“We saw your bravery as well, my queen—you fought the way a true woman of the North would,” Ser Leobald declared. His praise was honest and lacking artifice, too. A fact that surprised Daenerys. Most northern lords treated her with wary disgust and anger for her Targaryen blood, and foreignness and everything else under the sun.

Lord Benfred piped up, “I would also tender my condolences to you—for your many losses on the field. I did not know Ser Jorah personally, but I know he served you well to his dying breath. As did your army.”

Overcome with the unexpected compassion of this for he was one of the only northmen who had bothered to offer any sort of comfort, Dany could only respond with a choked, “We all did what we must, my lords, for the living.” She raised her glass.

“For the living,” they toasted back, and she took a small sip. The watered wine was roiling in her belly most uncomfortably.

When they both tarried instead of skittering away in the disdainful manner she’d come to expect from northerners, Dany smiled at them both, nonplussed. Lord Benfred seemed oddly nervous while his uncle was shooting expectant glances between him and her as though he was waiting on his nephew to do something.

“My lords, may I help in any way?”

Ser Leobald elbowed his nephew in what he must have thought was a surreptitious manner but resulted in Benfred wincing in agony, no doubt from a tender rib or two.

“Yes,” Lord Benfred wheezed. “I had hoped that you would allow me to sit with you, my queen.” He cleared his throat loudly. “You see… I read many tales of Essos as a boy, and I hoped that you might tell me of your—time there.”

Even through the bruises and the dark blond beard, Dany could see the ruddy tinge to his cheeks as he made the request.

And suddenly, it hit her what was going on. Benfred and his rather hopeful uncle were… _attempting to court her_. The mere notion made her want to burst out laughing but she held back, if only so she wouldn’t mortify the poor man standing before her waiting on an answer. In Essos, she had had many suitors vying for her hand, even after her second marriage. She’d come to Westeros knowing that she would have to take a husband at some point. But she’d not yet experienced such simple flirtations from anyone in her time here. Most people were afraid of her and well, Jon Snow was many things, but a skilled flirt wasn’t one of them.

Grimacing at her mind returning to _him_—always to him, even when he clearly didn’t want anything to do with her—Dany forced herself to chuckle and nod. “Please, you have my leave to sit with me a while—I am tired, but I can share a story or two, I’m sure.”

Lord Benfred let out a gusty sigh of relief. Meanwhile his uncle, who could not count subtlety as one of his gifts, barely restrained himself from winking as he made a great show of shaking his empty mug. “I’ll be off to fill my mug with more ale, then and leave you two young ones to acquaint yourselves!”

He toddled off, clearly chuffed with himself, and Dany, who had wanted to collapse in a puddle of lonely heartache mere moments ago—laughed, loudly and genuinely, for the first time in what felt like ages.

She didn’t notice the dark, baleful gaze that watched as she and the young lord of Torrhen’s Square exchanged pleasantries at the head table of the great hall. She didn’t notice how the owner of said gaze clenched his fist in annoyance as he watched Benfred Tallhart ply her with his affable charms, with the confidence of a man who’d grown up _knowing_ he was noble, worthy and entitled. She didn’t notice how he brushed off the camaraderie of his friends and ignored the inviting glances of the bevy of northern beauties in his close surrounds to stride from the hall, head pounding from too much drink and a queasy anger rising in his gullet at the sight of her in the company of another man.

**II**

In the days following the feast, it became clear that Lord Tallhart was but _one_ in a long line of would-be suitors for Queen Daenerys. It appeared that whatever prejudices the northern lords had held for Targaryens were firmly dissolved. The promise of a young, unmarried queen who could possibly raise one of these lords up to the highest title in the entire kingdom once she was crowned was all too tempting.

Jon couldn’t stand it.

He had made note of each one and contemplated pulling rank to eject them from Winterfell forthwith. _Didn’t they have castles of their own to oversee and smallfolk to feed with their own bloody stores?_ He’d thought about using his fists to teach them lessons by way of bloodied nose and blackened eye—but no one was up to meeting him in the training yard, still recovering from the Great War as they all were. More than once, he’d dreamed of snatching her up and carrying her far, far away from all their licentious glances and thirst-ridden smiles so he might remind her of the nights they’d shared on the boat. Of the way he could bring her into a frenzy with nought but his tongue. Of how good it could feel to sink his length into her—

_But he couldn’t do that_. He had no place to do _that_. She was his _aunt_, as he had cause to remind himself time and again.

He _shouldn’t_ be feeling violently possessive over _his aunt_, should he? He _shouldn’t_ feel as though he had some sort of claim over her—she could accept as many suitors as she wanted, and he _shouldn’t_ care! It wasn’t _his_ place to _care_. Or to _want_. Much less, _take_.

He rubbed at his aching temples, wrestling inwardly as he had been for the last several weeks. He’d tried to convince himself of these simple truths and it wasn’t working.

Every single time he heard her giggle sweetly at something that dolt Tallhart said, he cracked his knuckles. And when he saw Roger Ryswell offer his burly arm to help her step over a pile of rubble as they took a turn about the keep, his eyes saw red. Just this morning, he’d glimpsed Andryn Flint, a second cousin to the chief of the mountain clans, offering her a rough carving of a dragon, and Jon had been hard-put not to drag the man away from her by the scruff of his neck and beat him bloody in the practice yards.

He’d restrained himself. Just _barely_. And after a life time of teaching himself how to do so, to deprive himself of things he wanted, to hold himself back, to deny his basest urges and the petty jealousies that marked him as the bastard he no longer was—one would think it would be easy to do so. But he’d already failed in the task when it came to her. From the moment he’d seen her in her throne room on their family’s seat, he’d been helplessly drawn, a moth to her dragon’s flame. And his yearning had only increased after he worked up the courage to knock on her door on that ship.

So, to see her be the object of desire or ambition for all these men grated on his nerves and filled him with a rage that threatened to consume him at any moment. Whether it was the wolf within him, or the dragon, he was starting to understand that he didn’t like to share.

There were very few things Jon could call _his_. His sword, certainly. Ghost—although his direwolf was no pet. Jon belonged to Ghost just as much. And now Daenerys.

He’d spent most of his life fighting and waiting to die. After he did die the first time, he’d been counting the hours until he would again; sure, as he was that there was nothing left for him but to keep fighting wars. Then he met her. And he’d rediscovered what it was to _want and need_. But this was different from Ygritte, or his boyish longings. She’d woken something dangerous inside him, and it burned.

When he’d learned of their blood relation, it had made him frightened of that urge to take her and make her his. It was frowned on by the gods, wasn’t it? Worse, it was too impetuous, entirety at odds conflict with the stolid duty and self-denial he’d observed all his life. The kind of lo—_feeling_ that had destroyed an entire country. His parents and their folly were proof of that.

So, he’d tamped it down, and told himself to push her away. It worked. _Too well_.

Now here he was, sitting with the very real possibility that someone else might claim her heart and it was driving him mad.

_Since when did northerners vie for the affections of southron women with such embarrassing eagerness?_ He thought with peevish scorn.

As a child, Jon had spent much of his time hovering on the periphery of many a Winterfell feast and the gatherings his lord-father hosted. And even after bearing Eddard Stark five children, Lady Catelyn had been regarded as something of an outsider, a consequence of her keeping to her new gods and southron ways. Northerners tended to treat anyone foreign with heavy suspicion no matter the title or wealth.

To watch all these males of suitable (and some wildly unsuitable) age falling over themselves to court Daenerys was a surprise. Weeks ago, on the way to Winterfell, he’d wanted everyone, whatever their creed or country, to just get along and work together for the greater good. They couldn’t afford to let divisions and prejudices get the best of them with the army of the dead knocking on their doors.

But he’d been an idiot not to anticipate this.

She was a queen. A beautiful, intelligent, brave one at that. The sort of warrior princess he'd dreamed of when he was a boy, reading fantastical stories in the keep's library.

It was not that he could blame them for panting after her the way they did.

_Gods be good, _how _could_ he blame them when he wished to be in their stead, receiving her fond smiles and listening to the stories of every adventure and trial that brought her here, arguing with her over different ideas about the world, the way he had many a night on the royal boat, mere moons ago? He would give up his own leg to be back in that stateroom, tasting the berry-tartness of her mouth, running his hands along every perfect curve of her shapely form, fucking his fingers ever so gently into her, lapping at her fragrant cunt—

“Jon, I must speak to you!” a shrill voice interrupted his filthy thoughts.

He adjusted his burgeoning cock as his sister blustered into the room, thankful for the desk in the elm-panelled solar he used to attend to matters of the keep and his bannermen. The same desk his father—no, his _uncle_, had used when he was alive. The knowledge still pained him to think about.

He wasn’t the son of Eddard Stark.

It was a knowledge that was difficult to swallow or even fully understand. It seemed far too big. A whole lifetime of lies, of believing he was something he wasn’t.

Part of him wished he’d never learned the truth. And the other part, still overwhelmed and frightened by it, wanted to reach out, cautious and careful, to touch it. To learn what it meant to be an… _Aegon Targaryen _instead of a bastard.

Shaking himself out of his own thoughts, he looked to Sansa. “How can I help you, sister?”

He’d become increasingly cross with Sansa, if he was honest. She’d always been tiresome, even when they were all children. When they reunited at Castle Black and she’d apologised for her treatment of him, he’d let go of old grudges. Or tried to. But ever since he’d returned with a queen and her dragons and the largest army Westeros had ever seen, she’d been behaving in a manner that irked him. Ungrateful, presumptuous, disrespectful to those who’d risked life and limb to save the North.

It didn’t sit well with him.

“When will the dragon queen be leaving Winterfell?”

It _really_ didn’t sit well with him.

“Sansa, we addressed this yesterday at the strategy meeting—you were the one who suggested the queen halt plans to leave for King’s Landing. And she agreed to do so for the next moon while our forces replenished their energies.”

Sansa snorted rudely, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jon arched his brow at that. “I thought this was what you wanted? For the _weary_ _men to rest after the battle_ before honouring our pledge to fight for Queen Daenerys.”

“I didn’t bend the knee to her, Jon, _you_ did.”

And _there_ was the rub, the core of his irritation with her. It had been pissing him off ever since the northern lords had crowned him. His own sister did not respect him. Not as king, not as warden, not even as an elder brother. And perhaps she never would, not after she spent her earliest years treating him just as Catelyn Stark had. To continually question and undermine him like this was beyond the pale.

It was the only reason that he’d stayed his tongue the day before in the godswood. He’d been so close to telling her and Arya the truth about his parentage, the truth about their father. But some quiet voice in his head had made him pause. He was glad for it. Telling Sansa such a volatile piece of information would’ve been grievous folly.

“Yes, I did bend the knee, Sansa. As king, it was my _right_ to do so. She is the queen _I_ chose for the good of the North and all of Westeros. A worthy queen who fought for us, might I remind you. She fought alongside her people—.”

“We aren’t her people!” Sansa interjected hotly.

Jon ignored the interruption, his voice growing colder and firmer with each word. “She almost lost her life defending Winterfell. She lost her dragon to save me. She lost so many of the Dothraki and Unsullied who sailed with her from Essos, to save us. You will respect her.” That last was uttered with a stone-cold steeliness that brooked no argument.

Of course, Sansa attempted anyway. “But Jon—.”

“But _nothing_, sister,” he roared, banging his fist on the desk in front of him. The rage inside him turned so scorching-hot he might’ve given Drogon a run for it. “Do not think I am unaware of the ways you’ve treated the queen and our guests. I have my eyes and ears in this keep, just as you, no doubt, have yours.”

Sansa blanched, a glint of fear in her ice-blue eyes.

“You _will_ treat Daenerys with respect. You _will_ defer to her because she is our queen. You _will_ ensure that her people are accorded the same respect as any northman for they fought that way. Am I clear?”

Whatever Sansa had learned from her time under Cersei’s thumb, and under the tutelage of that snake Lord Baelish, it had taught her not to cower. She drew herself up in her boiled leather gown like an affronted bird—it amused Jon to see her in such armoured garb, given she’d never lifted so much as a finger to fight in the battle against the dead.

She sneered in disgust. “You’re so in love with her that you can’t even make choices in the interests of the North. Of your family!”

He didn’t deny that he loved but he let it pass for the moment. The true irony was that Daenerys _was_ his family, too. Perhaps even closer than Sansa or Arya in some ways. The realisation evoked a strange thrill inside him that he didn’t quite know how to explain.

Forcing himself to focus on the quarrel at hand, he glared at his cousin.

“And what ‘interests’ are those, sister? Independence?” he scoffed. “As you feel compelled to remind us every bloody day, the North has no food stores. We do not know how long this winter will last. Just how do you intend to feed an ‘independent’ nation without time to sow crop and harvest? She holds the Reach and is the only person who could provide us with food. And when Daenerys Targaryen takes King’s Landing, how do you intend to stand against two dragons and her sizable army? What does the North have to leverage at her after she’s sacrificed so much to save us, hm?”

She didn’t answer but Jon could see how embittered she was that she had no retort to his interrogations, her pale face pinched and sharp as a crow’s.

He felt for her in some ways, after what she’d been through with Bolton, and before that in the South, it wasn’t surprising that she was so hardened. But she was blinkered and stubbornly selfish in her thinking, that much was clear. And he was beginning to wonder if she’d ever bother to learn to be any different.

Kissing his teeth, Jon pushed passed her, pausing at the door to issue an order—not as her brother but as Warden of the North, “You will join us for supper with the Queen. This is the last feast before a good number of the lords and their families depart to assess the damage at their keeps at the close of this week. It is critical that we present a united front and that you play your role as chatelaine of this castle. If I do not see you there, I will drag you from your rooms myself.”

He slammed out of the solar and headed for the great hall, leaving her to stew on and spit at his threat. He grinned. It felt surprisingly good to speak his mind and put his sister in her place. He’d been hesitant to do so in the past but no longer.

And it felt even better to speak for his queen, to defend her as he’d been stupidly nervous to do when they first arrived at Winterfell just over a moon passed. He had felt it wasn’t his place—even though they had had made him king, he’d always been aware of the precariousness of his position. And, much as it shamed him to admit it now, he’d been too craven to test their patience with him. But no more. He had much to make up for on that front. _She_ deserved better than his gutlessness.

Filled with conviction, his eyes lit upon Davos, who’d been doing his best to oversee some of the clean-up and reconstruction in the aftermath of the war. He’d also served as an excellent source of information on Sansa’s activities—his natural cordiality proving a great advantage in gaining the trust of wary northerners.

“Ser Davos, I wanted to check in with you on whether the cooks have started to deliver food and medicinal rations to those camped outside without your coaxing?”

“Afternoon, my lord.” Gesturing towards the rows of large urns and chest-high cauldrons that were waiting to be filled with some stew or salted oats, Davos smiled. “As you can see, everyone’s been listening. In fact, just this very morning, your steward approached me to ask if he could send some of the older married women with sewing skills out into the camp to ensure anyone who needed stitching had gotten it. They seemed excited to help the brave foreign lads who came all this way to save northern hides.”

Jon let out a breath of relief. His father had always said that you could make firm friends on the battlefield. It was heartening to see that in this, Ned Stark had been right. He nodded at one of the kitchen maids who had already started piling still-warm loaves of nutty ryebread on a tray. She blushed, curtsied and scurried off.

“Good, good,” Jon mumbled, trying to think of other ways they could repair the damage done in the first few weeks since Daenerys and her armies came to Winterfell.

“You seem anxious, lad?”

“No, no,” he rushed to say. But Davos raised one bushy eyebrow at him, seeing through him in an instant. “It’s just. It hits me time and again how poorly the northerners welcomed our allies. _And I allowed it_. It was—badly done of me, of all of us. All our efforts now seem too little and too late after all that.”

With his usual warmth and certainty, Ser Davos laid a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “It’s never too late to apologise, lad. Or show you’ve learned and are trying to do the right thing.”

It was reassuring to hear at least, he sent his former hand a half-smile.

Jon’s good mood didn’t last long, however.

As soon as he stepped out of the keep, he came to a stop at the sight before him. Daenerys seated with Ser Galbraith Ashwood, a quiet bookish man who’d fought bravely in the clash against the dead but seemed better suited to a soft life than that of the battlefield. They were on the balcony overlooking the courtyards, their heads tilted towards each other, while Daenerys played with a small bouquet of flowers that the lord had, no doubt, presented to her as a boon.

Jon scowled. He had never given her flowers. He’d never thought to give anyone flowers, really. What use were flowers in the Night’s Watch? And that far up North, the only thing that managed to grow were blue roses, and even those peeked through the earth for a few weeks between harsh, frigid winters and only slightly less frigid summers.

Ygritte would’ve laughed at him if he’d tried to offer her a bit of heather, called him a pretty lad and then likely threatened to kill him for his troubles. So… no, he’d not given Daenerys flowers. It seemed like a terrible oversight now since all these men were running about plucking the fields around Winterfell bare in their efforts to woo a queen.

_Had she found him lacking because of it? Had she been disenchanted by his utter dearth of charm?_

He grimaced at himself. He’d never been good at dealing with highborn ladies, ever tongue-tied and wary of speaking out of turn lest Lady Stark reproach him. He was just a bastard. _Or he had been_. Now he wasn’t even sure what he was. The churning in his belly as he watched his lo—_his aunt_ and her suitor made him wish he’d paid more attention to Robb’s chivalrous behaviour with every pretty girl that visited when they were children.

“She seems to have quite the following, your queen.” He’d gotten used to Arya sneaking up on him, so he didn’t jolt at her abrupt appearance.

As they watched, Arthur Glenmore from Rillwater Crossing and one of Glover’s rugged-faced sons made their way to where the queen held court of a fashion, obviously eager to distract her from Ser Galbraith.

At this rate, Jon was sure he would toss them all out before supper.

“I’m surprised you’re not one of them,” Arya remarked, and Jon could hear the smirk in her voice as she said it.

“It’s not—it’s not like that with me and her. She’s an ally, nothing more,” he said unconvincingly.

His little sister just shook her head and snickered. “I think it _was_ at least until a few weeks before the army of the dead got here. Then you started acting strange, and she couldn’t understand why. Anyone could see she was hurt and confused, and you were brooding all the time. Knowing you, you didn’t speak to her about it, and so here you are. Watching her get wooed by a never-ending line of eligible bachelors.”

Jon didn’t appreciate the bland summation of all the ways things had gone wrong since that fateful night Sam had told him who his parents were. Everything had gone to the dogs after that.

“She’s a queen, of course she would have admirers.” He did his best to not make it sound as though he wanted to gut every single one of said admirers with a rusted carving knife.

“Ah, so you don’t mind, then?”

“No,” Jon insisted, turning away from the queen and her coterie, to make his way for armoury—maybe a bout with a practise sword would make him feel less like shit. Arya followed, clearly hoping to needle him further. “I thought you didn’t like her and wanted her gone?” The conversation with his siblings in the godswood had infuriated him. While he’d dealt with Sansa, he wanted to get a better handle on Arya.

“After your passionate defence of her yesterday, and a conversation I _may_ have had with Gendry and the Hound, I’m starting to think she’s all right.” She shrugged when Jon shot her sceptical look. “I am capable of changing my mind. And I realised that I’d only taken Sansa’s word for what _your_ queen Daenerys was like, so I sought a second and third opinion.”

Jon huffed, a thread of bitterness in his voice, “She’s not _my _anything.” He shot a look at the woman in question, wincing when one of her lovesick swains lifted her hand to press a gallant kiss on her knuckles. It was such a southron thing to do that Jon wasn’t sure whether to shake his head or punch something. He did neither.

“You don’t have to feel too bad about it. Manderley’s grand-daughters have been trying to catch your eye for weeks. You should’ve seen them, the Norrey girls and one of those Burley women carrying on and on about your big muscles and sable eyes. After you left the celebration feast early a few nights ago, I thought they and a couple of wildlings were going to swoon or break their necks trying to get you to notice them and give them a tumble.”

Jon paused with a frown, torn between asking his sister to never speak of such things in his hearing and explain what she was going on about. “Wait, who?” He’d not noticed anyone looking his way, really. _Why would they do that? He was just a bastard_—

Except he wasn’t. Not anymore. Jon wondered if there would come a time when the knowledge would sit easily within him.

Rolling her eyes at his confusion, Arya tugged him by the arm. “Come—you promised me we’d spar together if we lived through the Long Night, might as well do it now. You look like you need it and I want to see your face once I defeat you.”

Jon surreptitiously signalled for Ghost to wander up to where Dany sat with her throng of beaux. He’d been doing it since even before the Dead arrived—sending his wolf to guard her for when he couldn’t—_or felt he shouldn’t_. He’d not instructed him to do so, but Jon knew Ghost would have no problems biting off a hand or two if any of the lords behaved out of turn.

“I might just allow you to win _one_ round, little sister.” He followed Arya to the practise yard. If nothing else, he needed to blow off some steam.

**III**

Dany was trying and failing not to roll her eyes. She’d only come out to the balcony overlooking the main courtyard and some of the training yards so she could have a breath of fresh air. But then Ser Galbraith, a sweet but fairly boring man had popped out of nowhere, and now he was reading a set of northern poems. Perhaps hoping to curry favour by … _showing himself as literate_? Dany wasn’t entirely sure what the point was, she’d never had a suitor that recited poetry. And she wasn’t quite sure she wanted one at that.

At first it had been a welcome distraction, allowing some of the northern lords to court her. She’d never marry any of them but there was no harm in being kind to their efforts. It helped not to dwell on sorrow and melancholy so much. And it saved her from thinking about _him_. Even though she saw him often in the corner of eye, going about his business as lord of the keep and Warden of the North, helping some of the injured or overseeing the wellbeing of surviving forces and some of the families who had sought shelter at Winterfell just as she often did—they had not spoken much.

It might’ve been fine if she only needed to deal with one admirer. But then, inspired by Lord Tallhart’s apparent success, more and more had sprouted to ply her with compliments, questions and, from a couple of the more daring ones, sly suggestions to sneak off for trysts in one of Winterfell’s hidden alcoves.

She’d played off all their attempts with a patient smile. If she had to marry, she would do so to secure her claim as Tyrion so often reminded her. And a lord from one of the North’s smaller houses wouldn’t do much to further that. But it didn’t hurt to bring all these people on her side, to prove that she wasn’t the wicked dragon whore they once thought her to be.

All of it would’ve been just fine if they weren’t so _boring_. Lord Benfred was nice enough but didn’t have any grand thoughts about the state of the world or his place in it. When she’d tried to ask him how he bore the burden of leadership a lord, he confessed that he had no idea about that because his uncle still ran the household on his behalf. Ser Roger was obviously a fine warrior-type, but dull as a rock with a tendency to offer unsolicited advice on everything from horse-riding to governing a realm. The lord of House Ashwood was sweet with his flowers and mild-mannered wooing but failed to set anything inside her alight. And while Lord Wylis Manderley had a fine head for numbers and money, he didn’t care enough for the wellbeing of his people, especially the smallfolk. On and on it went.

Missandei laughed at her every time she complained on quiet evenings spent in her chambers. Just the other day, she’d remarked, “My queen, if all these men are simply ‘unsuitable’, I begin to wonder if a man who satisfies your exacting tastes exists.”

Sighing, Daenerys ran a finger along the stalk of one of the wildflowers young Lord Larence Snow had given her just after she’d broken her fast in the great hall. He’d been blushing to the roots of his hair and stammered an inaudible greeting before trundling off, his too-big sword clattering against his boots in a manner that was as endearing as it was ridiculous.

She knew she would never marry for love. But if she _could_ have a man of her own choosing, he wouldn’t be like any of these….

He’d be gentle and kind but with a firm sense of right and wrong. Able to stand toe-to-toe with her in an argument and offer his own wisdoms without trying to order her about like some useless noblewoman who had no thoughts in her head. Someone who wanted to leave this world better than he’d found it, to plant trees and help the downtrodden. Duty and honour tempered by generosity and good humour. She didn’t mind a shy man if he could handle himself well in a fight. For every man she’d ever loved had been skilled with a sword and marred with battle scars so it was clearly a _thing _she enjoyed. He would be comely, with dark hair and eyes she might want to drown in, and a pair of lips she could nibble and suck on for hours. He would make her heart flutter and her soul sing but always challenge her to be her best self.

And he’d _know_ just how to make her squirm and _sigh_ and scream with his hands, or his cock_. Or even just his mouth_….

The clash of steel drew her out of her wanton musings to the training yard below where she found a man who, to her chagrin, matched many of her reveries. As though she’d summoned him using some arcane love spell.

_Damn him_.

Jon Snow was sparring with his sister. They’d opted to use their real weapons for whatever reason and were clearly having a rollicking time while doing so.

Dany hadn’t had a chance to get to know Arya Stark, but she was clearly more than proficient—she had to be given how she’d slain the Night King. She moved with a cat-like elegance and deadly precision. But it was Jon who drew her eye. Where his sister flitted and leapt around him like a dancer, Jon had a lethal grace. Every movement was executed with a frugal economy, he wasn’t interested in show-boating for the audience. But every now and again, there would be a flourish. He would twirl on his left leg, and then kneel, bringing his hefty bastard sword above his head to block his sister’s blows. Other times, two handed, he would spin and bring the blade down hard enough that it rattled Arya’s own needle-like weapon.

Even if it was a play fight, Dany could see how he thrilled at it. His plush mouth open, mid-smile and panting with exertion. His cheeks were flushed, tendrils of soft curly hair escaping his cue, falling across his brow rakishly.

Mouth dry, Dany fidgeted in her seat as she watched the way the muscles in his thighs bunched and rippled beneath the tight breeches he wore. She’d spent many a night (and some days) testing the strength of those thighs, and the perfect curve of his bottom. She licked her lips.

_Gods._

He was fast on his feet, deflecting one hit and then another, slashing at the knife Arya attempted to use with her right hand and using a complicated combination of parries to drive his sister back. Before long, he’d managed to slip through Arya’s defences to tap her on the shoulder with the tip of his sword in victory.

Arya seemed put out for a moment before she threw herself in her brother’s arms for a hug. The sight of it was heart-warming, and it prompted a round of applause.

Dany noticed some of the women who’d been trailing after Jon for weeks were here, showing appreciation with simpering smiles. Lord Manderley’s daughter with that singular hair of hers seemed keen, making no attempt to hide the invitation in her eyes. If it wasn’t for the fact that Jon seemed utterly oblivious to it all, Dany might’ve felt some ire. As it was, she just had a low-level irritation.

“Our warden is most skilled with a blade, is he not, my queen?” Ser Galbraith was watching Jon with an admiring expression, his own hands grasping the book in his lap tightly. There was a furtive hunger in his eyes as he stared at Jon.

Raising her brow, Dany couldn’t help but relate to his state of agitation. Jon had a way of evoking such feelings. She rubbed her thighs together, the molten warmth in her belly an unwelcome reminder of Jon’s effect on her.

Nudging Ser Galbraith, she chortled, and said with a knowing tilt of her head, “Oh, I’d imagine he’s very _skilled_ indeed with a blade and many other things, my lord.”

The nobleman jerked in his seat and blushed so fiercely his face turned purple as a grape as if he’d realised that he’d given himself away and wasn’t sure what to do. Dany laid a hand on top of his and shot him a commiserating smile to show his secret was safe with her. If nothing else, she had a feeling she would get along with Ser Galbraith just fine now that they understood each other.

**IV**

Within ten minutes of the evening meal, Jon was starting to regret his insistence on coming—not that he’d had a choice, he was warden after all. And after reprimanding Sansa, and even convincing Arya to join in, he couldn’t have excused himself.

But watching a good eight lords skulking around Daenerys like man-sized bees to a honeycomb was surely the worst punishment he’d ever been forced to endure. From the way Ryswell seemed to be doing his best to stare at her bosom while not appearing to, to the worshipful expression young Larence Snow, bastard heir to the Hornwood, had on his face, as though he’d never seen any woman in his entire life, let alone one like the Targaryen queen. Jon’s palms itched to slap some sense into them. They needed to stop leering at her or at least remember their dignity and the respect a monarch deserved.

He had tried to catch her eye, to make sure she didn’t wish for him to step in and get rid of them. After all, it was his duty as host to ensure his guests were comfortable. He’d do it in a trice, if she asked.

But she’d avoided his gaze. Instead, offering her winsome smiles to every grizzled fool that tried to charm her with the graciousness only a queen would possess. With every smile and favour wasted on these louts, Jon found himself drinking and gritting his teeth. By the end of the meal, he’d have nought but the stubs of his gums and a bleary head.

He plunked his tankard down, not wanting to get drunk, and cast a narrow-eyed glare at the drama at the other end of the table. 

It seemed that Tallhart, Ryswell, Carwyn, Hornwood and even bloody Manderly’s oldest son were competing for who could utter the inanest flatteries. It was enough to turn Jon’s stomach.

“My queen, might I say, you do look as beautiful as a summer’s day—this night,” waxed Carwyn, his hand on his heart with comical earnestness. “The North has never seen your like in all my born days.”

“Why thank you, my lord, you are too kind,” Dany said, taking the compliment in her stride.

Not to be outdone, Ser Roger Ryswell declared with sycophantic devotion, “My queen, I would beg a favour of you tomorrow?”

Ever generous, Daenerys nodded at the rough-edged lord with a welcoming smile.

“I would take you on a ride through the wolfswood. With the weather warming up so nicely around Winterfell, I thought you might like me to show you how to ride in these lands.”

Jon tried not to roll his eyes. Did the idiot not realise she led a _khalasar_ of horse lords? That she probably knew her way around a saddle better than any person in this room?

Jon had never learned much how to flirt with ladies—always the shy, melancholic shadow to Theon’s roguish appeal and Robb’s courtly charm. But he was sure he could do it better than this fool.

Dany seemed to be trying not to laugh as she responded with an amiable tilt of her head. “How generous of you to offer my lord—I had not had a chance to explore the lands around Winterfell. It would be lovely to see something of the North before I depart.”

Jon jeered inwardly at that. He’d shown her _something of the North_ when he took her to his special hunting cave just weeks ago! Of course, they’d spent much of that afternoon tucked in the warm springs in the depths of the cave, bodies entwined, desperate to have each other in every way they could before they were forced to return to their duties and the glooms of war once again.

He glanced at her to see if she might look at him now. Send him some small sign that she hadn’t forgotten their times together, that perhaps there was still _something_.

But she studiously evaded him.

It reminded him, shamefully, of that week he’d done the same to her. Just after Sam had told him the truth, he’d gone out of his way to avoid her, exiting any room she entered with a haste that was unforgiveable in hindsight. Unable to meet her eyes whenever she tried to draw him into a conversation or called on him to offer his opinion.

Had it frustrated her as much as it now did him? Had it made this terrible fear settle in her gut? Had it made her want to do something rash and foolish to just _force_ him to acknowledge her presence?

Frustrated, he let his gaze run over her, his heart warming involuntarily at how lovely she was. Her hair was set in only two small braids that framed her heart-shaped face while the rest of her moon-pale locks trailed over her shoulders. It made her look soft and sweet enough to kiss or do something else. Perhaps follow the coiling lock of hair at her neck, with his lips first, and then his tongue and last his teeth. She always loved when he used his teeth to nip at her softest parts, leaving a trail of bruises she’d have to work hard to hide the next morn….

Jon fidgeted in his seat, forcing his mind to desist from going down a path that might embarrass him in front of all these fine lordlings and nobles. He took a long sip of his ale and glowered at the loathsome tableau unfolding in front of him. How he would survive this night, he wasn’t sure. But he’d try.

As if to test his patience, Wylis Manderly, a recent widower who was surely too long in the tooth for all these theatrics given he had daughters who were grown women, took a break from quaffing his stew to say, “There’s nothing so beautiful in the North as White Harbour, Queen Daenerys. I’m sure you never saw much of our lands on the journey to Winterfell. I would be more than happy to show you the riches of New Castle and its surrounds. It’s certainly a far sight more civilised than you’ll find anywhere north of the Twins. Anywhere else is nought but savages and godless brutes.”

“One always appreciates a bit of ‘civilisation’,” was all the queen said to the unsolicited offer before she turned her shoulder on the buffoon. A cut direct, subtle as it was.

Jon could see the way the corners of her mouth tightened. She didn’t take kindly to the use of the word ‘savage’, Jon knew. For it was a word that had been used to denigrate those with whom she’d crossed the Narrow Sea, it had been used against her. Daenerys Stormborn did not look down on _any_ people no matter where they hailed.

And Jon loved her for it.

Her eyes, gold-flecked indigo, flicked towards him then. Just a split second where the tension in her jaw eased, and there was a flash of humour in those changeable depths before she turned to Tallhart to inquire after something he’d said. But it was all Jon needed, a mere moment of connection. She was not immune to him, she had not forgotten.

_Gods, he loved her._

The realisation felt new, even though it wasn’t. He’d known it on those nights they spent on the boat. Had mouthed it into her hair as they both drifted to sleep, breathing in the flowery scent of her. But he’d never let himself truly _know _it as he did in this moment.

It had everything and little to do with the bevy of men desperate for her hand. It was just her. He’d fight for her. He’d die for her, he knew. But more than anything, he understood that he wanted to _live_ if it meant she’d gift him with her smile every day for the rest of his life.

He’d been a thousand times a fool trying to deny it. He couldn’t—he _wouldn’t_. Not any longer.

**V**

For a man who’d spent the better part of a moon’s turn ignoring her, Jon Snow seemed determined to stare at her this evening with a brazenness bordering on uncouth.

Dany wasn’t unused to the attention that men gave her. She knew Ryswell had been staring at her breasts the entire night, and that the young Lord Snow of the Hornwood was taken with her despite being unable to do little more than stammer any time she spoke to him. A sweet boy, but too young and innocent for her. She’d loved a man named Snow once already, she didn’t think she could deal with another if it wasn’t _him_.

Sighing, she knew she wouldn’t be able to take much more of this idle chatter. Certainly, she would start pulling her own hair out if she had to sit through one more bit of idiocy from Lord Manderly. Noting a lull in conversation, she cleared her throat and rose to her feet. Everyone else still seated at the table—her newly acquired courtiers, Tyrion, Missandei and Grey Worm, Jhaqo and Cohollo, the eldest Stark sister and her lady knight Brienne of Tarth, Ser Davos and Jon, and some of the nobles who were set to leave at the end of the week—stood in deference (although Sansa did so with obvious reluctance).

“My lords and ladies, I must bid you all good night.”

Before she could make a tactful escape, lords Ryswell and Carwyn began to argue over who would accompany her to her chambers. It didn’t seem to occur to either that she had guards posted at strategic points throughout the keep, and thus no need of an escort. Just as she opened her mouth to put a stop to it, Jon scraped his chair back and stood. “_I _will escort the Queen. I have some urgent business to discuss with her.”

No one else seemed to pick up on the fact that he was baldly lying. And none of her admirers dared to contradict their warden—a man who had been their king not so long ago.

Jon walked towards her, his eyes so dark they seemed black, and held out his arm. She tried not to flounder in the undertow of his steady gaze, taking his proffered arm with a huff. After all this time ignoring her, _now_ he wanted to talk about ‘urgent business’?

_What utter rot._

They didn’t speak as Jon led her towards her quarters. And with each step, Dany felt herself growing incensed, her temper rearing up in a way it hadn’t for a good, long while. _How dare he?_ When he took a detour down a passage-way that led away from her rooms, she subtly tried to pull her arm from his hold.

“Where are you taking me, Lord _Jon_?” She might’ve said _Aegon_ if they were alone just to needle him, and possibly shock him into releasing her.

He didn’t let her go, the firm muscles under her hand bunched as he held her fast and practically dragged her on, trying not to _look_ like he was doing so to any onlookers.

“As I told you, my queen, I have an urgent matter to share with you,” he said placidly, nodding courteously at a few of the people they passed on the way to wherever he was leading her.

“Oh, an ‘urgent matter’?” she scoffed. She made sure her face held a neutral expression and inclined her head towards those who bowed before them both. She was a queen—she couldn’t be seen scolding the Warden of the North in public or leaping on his back to tear his pretty hair out, no matter how frustrating the man was. “And it couldn’t wait till morning?”

“I’m afraid not.” His voice was a gravelly burr as he murmured close, eliciting a line of gooseflesh from the shell of her ear to the bottom of her neck, and an involuntary shiver through her body. _Curse him_. “I could wait no longer.”

He opened the door to a solar, well-appointed with walls made of some dark, glossy wood, and a cheerful blaze burning in the grate that warmed the room and cast it in a burnished glow, the fresh smell of pine coming off the red-hot logs. A desk stood in the middle, covered in a few inkwells, heavy books and sheets of paper, a bowl of hardened red wax with a heavy Stark sigil beside it—this must be where Jon conducted most of his daily work and administration. A leather-bound settee sat in front of the fire, with a few luxurious rugs. It was a very masculine space, but welcoming and comfortable as well.

Dany had no interest in being welcomed or comfortable right now.

As soon as he shut the door behind them, she yanked her arm out of his and rounded on him, ready to spit fire.

Before she could get a word out, a pair of lips pressed against her own, muffling the very loud scolding she’d been about to deliver.

“How-_mph_!”

She tried to jerk back, but his arms caged her in loosely, as his tongue stroked at the seam of her lips for entry. With an instinctive gasp, she allowed it, and then he was fondling her tongue with his, the bitter taste of the ale he loved so much mixed in with the honey-sweet tartlets that had been served after dinner and a flavour that was all too familiar, and _all-Jon Snow_, made her moan despite herself.

He gave an answering groan, the hands at her back slipped down to clasp her hips and hold her close as they kissed each other. Ravenous, re-learning the shape of each other’s mouths. Dany reached up to clasp his chin with her left hand, enjoying the soft scrape of his beard under her finger tips.

_Gods_, she’d missed this. Missed _him_.

That thought brought her right back to reality, much like being doused in a shower of frigid water.

And this time she did draw herself back, shoving Jon and his tempting mouth away from her with an irate, “_Excuse_ me, how dare you?”

“What?” Jon growled back clearly affronted at being interrupted. His lips were slick and almost plum-red in colour from all their kissing.

Dany refused to be distracted. Throwing her hands up in the air in indignation, she asked in a near-shriek, “What do you mean ‘what’? You dragged me here to tell me some ‘urgent matter’ and instead of doing that, you kiss me.” He opened his mouth to respond but she didn’t let him, poking him in the chest. “And this—after you’ve ignored me for more than a month and treated me as little more than an afterthought just because you found out the truth about your parentage!”

He winced.

“And then,” she rolled on. “You have the nerve to stand there and act like nothing’s happened? Like you didn’t toss me away at the first sign of trouble and leave me. Alone, in this cold, miserable place with no explanation—.”

“I’m sorry.”

The apology was delivered quietly but with an intensity that gave her pause.

He ran a hand through his hair in agitation, pulling it out of the cue so the curls fell to his shoulders. It made him look wildly handsome in the firelight, and so much like the man she’d spent weeks making love to on that boat.

“I am truly sorry, Dany,” he said. She flinched at the use of the nickname she’d only ever allow him to call her. She’d missed hearing it, and how she hated that.

He stepped closer, his eyes searching hers for something. “I’ve been a fool. The worst kind of fool. When I found out about my parents… it changed everything and nothing at the same time.” He shook his head, a sad uncertain look creeping onto his face that almost made her want to reach out. “My whole life became a lie in a moment’s truth. Ned Stark wasn’t my father. I wasn’t a bastard. I didn’t quite understand who I was, and so it was easy to just run away from it, for a bit. But then there was you.”

He shrugged. “Out of everything else, you were the _one_ thing I felt sure about. Wanting you, needing you.” A pause. “_Loving_ you. But I didn’t know if that made me a bad person to feel that way. So, I hid, like a coward.”

Hearing him say it, seeing the conflict on his face and in his tense body, tore at her heart. It hit her that on that night when he’d told her, she’d been so shocked, she hadn’t stopped to wonder how _he _felt. How the truth must have hurt and destabilised him in an entirely different way to her. And she should have.

He was her family, after all. The one thing she’d always yearned for, and above all, she wanted him to be all right.

“You’re not a coward, Jon. No matter your name, you’re still you. Jon Snow or Aegon Targaryen, it doesn’t change that Ned Stark raised you, that you overcame so much… prejudice, death, even, to become a king on your own merits and fight to save the world.”

His hunched shoulders eased infinitesimally from her words but there was still so much torment written on his face. “I’ve failed you so much the last few weeks, too caught up in my own head. Left you to grieve, alone. And—I’m sorry for how I let the northerners treat you and your people, that was unpardonable and dishonourable. I understand if you’ll not forgive me for it.”

_Oh, Jon._

Did he really think she couldn’t see the efforts he’d made? She’d heard from Missandei how he’d organised for food and medicinal supplies to go to the camps outside. Her closest blood-riders had told of how he himself would go and visit with her people to check on their welfare in the aftermath of the Great War. She’d seen him do it herself. Had known that he’d been trying his best to rectify things, had been heartened that he was as principled and kind as ever, no matter the tension between them.

Perhaps they both needed to learn better how to talk instead of stoppering their feelings and thoughts and creating so much room for misunderstanding and hurt.

“I forgive you, I _do_,” she assured him. “I must apologise as well—you’re my family. It’s just,” she smiled wryly. “For so long I was _the_ _last_, you see. _Alone_. And I think part of me didn’t quite know how to grasp that I wasn’t any longer. In some ways, I left you to shoulder this all by yourself when I should’ve tried to help.”

“You’re not alone anymore, Dany. You never will be.” At some point he had shuffled closer to her. His eyes were shining and the way he said it, felt like a vow. He reached to cup her jaw, his calloused fingers moving along her cheek in a loving caress.

He took a deep breath, as if gathering up some nerve. “Will you have me, Daenerys Stormborn? I’m a simple man, I know. I-I can’t write you sonnets like Galbraith or carve miniature dragons or pick pretty posies of flowers for you.” He ducked his head then, a flush creeping along his cheekbones before he continued in earnest, “And even knowing who I truly am, there will _always_ be something of a bastard inside me and I’m not ashamed of that. But I’ll ask you all the same.”

She wasn’t quite sure what he was asking but it made her eyes damp all the same. “You, stupid man—you don’t even need to ask. I’m already yours.”

She traced the fierce line of his brows with her forefinger, and down to his strong jaw, and his pouty lower lip. He was too comely for it to possibly be fair, and he was hers. She said it, too, “Just as you are mine, always.”

“Always and forever,” he affirmed, nipping at the pad of her finger before releasing it. Then he kissed her fully, soft and slow, a seal of his pledge.

His hand moved to clasp the nape of her neck, drawing her close as his tongue plundered her mouth and she explored his right back. Dany let her hands glide along his chest, gripping the front of his tunic to hold him near as the kiss intensified. She nipped at his plump lower lip and sucked on it wetly to soothe the ache. The sound he made when she did it, a trapped rumble of desire, had her entire body tingling with promise.

When they pulled apart for air, both winded, she couldn’t help but say in a rush, “For what it’s worth, Ser Galbraith’s poems were utterly dull. And I’ve never seen the point of plucking flowers out of the ground, they always die anyway. I much prefer the sort of man who has the courage—or perhaps insanity—to ride a dragon even though he’s got no idea how.”

“_Oh_?” Jon murmured, bringing his hands down to her hips as he nudged her a few steps until her back touched the door. He smiled, preening a little at her compliment.

“Hm, _yes_. Even better if he makes me laugh by tumbling off said dragon because he doesn’t know how to properly dismount.” She giggled at the way he blushed beet-red, how a man so recklessly brave could manage to be so delightfully bashful was a mystery to her.

“You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”

“Never, my love.”

His gaze lit up at the endearment. Then there was nothing more to be said as he pressed her against the door, bending his knees slightly so he could lift her up, her legs straddling his hips on instinct. He buried his mouth at her neck, suckling on the fluttering pulse there in a way that made her pant and arch like a cat. He bit at her throat, hard enough that she knew there’d be a bruise come morning, and she didn’t care a wit. She’d missed the bruises he gave her.

She plucked at the fastenings of his leather doublet, and then the heavy linen tunic underneath, pushing at both pieces of raiment until she could feel the warmth of his skin against her fingertips. When she scratched at his nipples, Jon pumped his hips, a jagged moan falling from his mouth. She could feel his length pressing at her core, hard and ready, even with all these unforgiveable layers between them.

As if realising that they wouldn’t get very far in this position, Jon turned around, and carried her swiftly to his desk. He swept most of the contents on top of it to the ground where they fell with a loud clatter and put her atop it. His hands made quick work of her fur-lined dress and then the flimsy chemise she wore underneath, ripping at the material until she was bare before him.

“Gods be good, you are a sight,” he muttered, a sweet reverence in his smouldering eyes as he studied every part of her.

Dany straightened her back, thrilling at the gruff praise. She spread her legs wide so he could see how much she craved him, slick between her thighs, her breasts beckoning for his touch.

Jon didn’t disappoint, reaching for her with both hands, his palms rough but tender as he cupped her fleshy mounds and then bent forward to take one aching nipple into his mouth, worrying the sensitive tip with his tongue until she cried out, uncaring of who might hear beyond this room. He switched to the other as his left hand trailed down passed her belly to her cunt, fingers sifting through the curls at her mound to stroke her pearl. Her hips lurched at the sensation, desperate for more pressure, _more everything_. She’d used her own fingers many a time when frustration had got the better of her the last few weeks, but nothing could compare to this.

His mouth followed the trail his hands had, and Dany soon found herself wailing as Jon flicked his tongue at her slit, curled around her throbbing nub as he pushed two long fingers inside her.

Cursing, she fell back against the desk, mindless to the heavy book digging into her spine or the odd smell of spilt ink somewhere by her shoulder. All she could feel was the man consuming every part of her, a starved wolf—_no, a dragon_. He hooked his arms under her thighs, throwing them atop his shoulders as he plunged his tongue inside her, lapping at her every crevice until she was shivering uncontrollably. She combed her fingers through the coiling locks of his hair and pressed herself to him, riding his face. She whined his name. Begging him to bring her to the precipice and fling her off, certain he’d catch her anyway.

He twisted his fingers within her cunt, rubbing at some _spot inside_ that had her bucking wildly and near-screaming as she crested, slick gushing out of her. He sipped every drop, his free hand caressing her hip-bone, gentling her as he would a runaway horse.

Her whole body felt like it was on fire, like she’d sprinted around the keep, like she might faint.

Before she could catch her breath, he was standing up, shoving at what was left of his tunic and breeches until his cock reared up, thick veins standing out as he grasped himself by the root and used the tip to rub at her still-pulsing entrance.

“Please,” she gasped. She needed him to fill her, to fuck her. Now. “_Please_, Jon.”

They grunted in unison when he did as asked, lunging into her in one sinful slide until he was all the way slotted, until she could feel herself straining to take all his girth at once. It felt _too_ good. She squeezed her own breasts, pinching at the soft flesh until she felt a twinge of pain—letting herself revel in each overwhelming sensation.

His stones slapped against her as he worked himself in and then out at a brutal pace. One hand on her belly to hold her in place, the other bracing on the desk by her head so he could plough into her. Every relentless pass had him nudging at her clit, dragging her willingly to yet another peak.

All it took was him leaning down to claim her mouth in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss and she was coming again, throwing her head back with a passionate wail that echoed against the walls of the room. Jon wasn’t far behind, a muted roar falling from his mouth as his hips jerked roughly and she felt his jism pulse, flooding her until some of it leaked out and his thrusts slowed to a sensual crawl.

He let himself fall on top of her, and she cradled him close, his weight heavy but welcome.

Dany rubbed at his back, the muscles tensing and relaxing under her palms as he recovered from his exertions.

As he caught his breath, his face hidden in the crook of her shoulder, Jon mumbled, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to use this desk again without thinking about tonight.”

There could be no doubt that half the castle heard the bright peal of laughter that escaped her then.

**VI**

The rugs in front of the hearth were as comfortable as they looked, and Jon had managed to find two thick furs in the chest by his desk, which were strewn over their intertwined legs haphazardly. Sitting propped up against the settee, with a drowsing and very naked Daenerys in his lap, the fire spitting merrily and the heavy scent of their lovemaking on the air, he wasn’t sure there was much that could feel better than this.

He kissed her temple, breathed her in, that trace of lavender and jasmine that always seemed to linger on her.

This time, he didn’t wait until she’d fallen asleep to say the words.

**fin**


	2. happily wedded, and soon to be well-bedded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> at jon and dany's wedding feast, all the rejected suitors commiserate over some ale and good cheer, and observe their new king and queen, and just how... _compatible_ they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE**: this is really just a RANDOM third-person observer POV drabble thing of jon and dany at their wedding feast. when i said i might do a sequel, i didn't expect this but i was bored in a long skype meeting and just started typing it lmfao. i love benfred tallhart, bless his heart. he's a sweetie. so it's him and the other suitors commiserating over dany rejecting them and then inadvertently witnessing a thing. 
> 
> also, bonus background pairing?

“Gods, look at the two of them,” Ryswell muttered in disgust. “How in the seven hells did a bastard manage to nab a woman like that?”

Tallhart snorted, half in disapproval and half in commiseration as he eyed the two monarchs seated on the raised dais at a table reserved for the pair of them, their heads bowed towards one another in deep conversation. “He may be a bastard—but he’s also a _king_, you fool,” he said, a note of reprimand in his voice, for Jon Snow was a good king. For all that he was a bastard, and a former brother of the Night’s Watch, the man had some honour in him and had done more for the North than many before him.

Benfred watched as the northern king whispered something in his lady's ear, and she laughed, joy lighting up her lovely face. She seemed much softer, just a young girl instead of a fearsome conqueror-queen, when she was in the King's presence. The weariness he'd observed in the few times they'd conversed all but gone. He felt a twinge watching the two of them. He’d not been in love with her, of course. But he might’ve fallen one day. It was clear, however, that her heart belonged to another. 

His uncle had been sorely disappointed when Lord Stark had announced just a sennight before that they were to be married in the godswood ahead of the combined forces of the Dothraki, Unsullied and Westerosi leaving for King’s Landing. Uncle Leobald had been hoping that the Queen would make his nephew a king. Gods knew Benfred had done his best to court her for nearly a moon’s turn, but she’d been nought but kind to all his advances and he’d long since accepted that he might only be so lucky as to call her a friend and his Queen.

King Jon seemed no less taken with her. Benfred had seen the way he looked at her when she'd come into the godswood during the marriage ceremony, with the slack-mouthed awe of a man who didn't know how he'd gotten so lucky. He couldn't blame him one bit for it.

Ryswell wasn’t taking the loss so well, however. The man was something of a blowhard and well-used to women falling over themselves on his account. The little Targaryen queen rejecting him had bruised his substantial pride.

“He might as well mount her right there and do away with the bedding the way he’s looking at her,” Roger said with jealous disapproval.

Benfred glanced towards the subjects of their observation, and—he couldn’t help but agree with Ryswell’s crass observation. He felt his own cheeks heat. Perhaps the two had forgotten that while the room was bustling with people making merry, celebrating the auspicious wedding of the King in the North to Queen Daenerys Targaryen, they were still something of the centre of attention for many.

The King, whose hair was worn down to almost his shoulders while the simple Stark crown rested on his head, was watching the queen with an almost predatory stare—much like that white wolf of his, if only for the different coloured eyes. He was looking at her the way a man would at a marvellous miracle, but with a frank possessiveness and hunger that said he’d kill anyone that dared to touch it. He also seemed to be _waiting_ for something, but who knew what. His brow was furrowed with focused determination, as he licked his lips. 

The Queen was ignoring him—or seemingly so. Benfred could see the way her cheeks were flushed with high colour, a glow that made her even more startlingly beautiful in the lamp-light, and there was a gentle agitation in the way she breathed, a sparkle in her eyes that bespoke of excitement. Because of her unique Targaryen irises, it was easy to see even from this distance that her pupils were blown wide, black almost taking over the indigo and gold.

She was gazing out into the crowd at all the dancing and gaiety, but Benfred noticed the way she seemed to be nibbling on her rosy lips._ Anxious, perhaps?_ She laughed genuinely at some jest from her loud Hand, the Lannister Imp, and then turned to another of her advisors, the pretty Naathi woman to say something to her. She seemed to be trying to appear perfectly blasé. Unless one was watching closely, one wouldn’t notice anything untoward.

But the way the king was staring at her, and the way she was staring at everything else was… _odd_.

“Dear gods, what a lucky bastard,” another voice slurred. This time Lord Wylis Manderley, clearly deep in his cups already but still lucid enough that he could see what was happening up on the dais.

“Too right,” Carwyn said, sounding just as bitter as Ryswell. “How she could overlook a trueborn noble male for a bastard—even if he was once crowned king—is a mystery to me.”

The other bastard in their midst, the young and slightly pitiful heir to the Hornwood made a gurgling sound of protest for he’d thrown his sword in the ring for a chance with the queen—and had clearly been smitten. But, like the rest of them, he’d had no luck ensnaring her affections.

“There’s no way she’ll be happy with him,” Carwyn declared. “Mark my words, she’ll be bored within a fortnight! Maybe she’ll even take on a paramour,” he finished with a sly grin.

Ryswell and him toasted to the grim prediction with glee. Wylis seemed to agree with them as he quaffed his own ale. Benfred simply shook his head at their antics, he didn’t quite agree. He caught the gaze of Ser Galbraith, a quiet and kindly man, and they both smiled at one another. Benfred had never spoken to him, Lord Ashwood was more of a studious type while he’d always seen himself as a man of action—far better with a sword than with book-learning and the like. But it was nice to have a like-minded fellow around. He made a mental note to befriend the man, whose eyes shimmered with a good humour. Perhaps they might have more in common. Nodding at him in a shared understanding, he tipped his own mug in Ashwood's direction, noting—absently—how the candles on the table seemed to reflect in his fern-green eyes so well. Benfred shook his head again. _What a strange observation_. He tossed the thought away almost as soon as he had it.

Turning back to the drama on the dais, he joined the rest of the gang of former suiters as they all watched the Queen fidgeted in her seat, seemingly discomforted. Then she leaned forward to take a hearty sip of her wine until she paused and slammed the goblet down with an audible clang. She choked on her attempt to swallow her drink and the King bent towards her, whispering solicitously in her ear, no doubt ensuring she was well.

The obvious love and care the man had for her was somewhat heartening. Tallhart wasn’t a romantic by any means, but it was always rare to see wedded couples who were in such accord with each other. It was a warming sight. It made him want to hope that he could find such amity with his future spouse should the day ever come.

The Queen was nodding, somewhat frantically, to whatever the King was saying. And then she gave an odd little jump in her seat, probably clearing her lungs of whatever liquid had been trapped there while she choked. After a few moments, still catching her breath, she sat up and moved back in her seat with a cough and a clearing of her throat.

Her whole face even down to her neck was flushed a fetching pink now, covered with a light sheen from the exertions of recovering from her spluttering, no doubt. She was winded, her bosom near shuddering with the effort to breathe. 

The King shot her a small half-smile, something almost smug about it, before he reached for his tankard of ale and took a gulping sip. He then brought his fingers up to his mouth; the digits clearly still damp from whatever rosemary-soaked braised beef or raspberry tartlets he’d likely eaten at dinner and licked them. He was clearly a man who enjoyed his food, Benfred observed.

The Queen glanced at her husband and when she saw him enjoying the last taste of his meal, his tongue moving over his fingers with a rather _dedicated_ thoroughness—the blush on her cheeks turned a few shades darker and she gasped, her eyes widening.

“Gods be good, the man has no shame,” Ryswell hissed, clear envy and a little bit of wonder in his tone.

Benfred frowned in confusion. _What did that mean?_

“_I_ certainly wouldn’t have a lick of shame if I was set to bed _that _every night for the rest of my life,” Carwyn said, a lascivious twist to his mouth. "Best believe that, my friends."

"Whatever else, he's a _lucky _bastard, that's for bloody certain," Andryn Flint remarked, he adjusted himself without any embarrassment.

Even Lord Wylis let out an emphatic and rather lusty, "Hear, hear!" as he did the same to the front placket of his breeches.

And then Benfred caught on, his mouth dropping open. He looked back to the King and his Queen, to the way she now seemed to be staring at her husband with a heavy and rather obvious … wantonness. A sweet adoration, too. And the way the King just kept smirking with the sort of self-satisfied look of a man who’d tupped and tupped well. Benfred _knew _that expression. He’d worn that kind of expression after a bout with a lovely woman named Tessie the one time he visited White Harbour's best brothel.

The King leaned down to press a soft kiss to his queen’s mouth, uncaring of their audience. Even from here, Benfred could see the way their tongues tangled for a mere few seconds. Before the contact could grow too heated, he pulled back. The Queen didn’t seem so happy about that, craning her head a little for more, her lips plump and red and ready for the taking. But she soon relented, perhaps remembering where they were. She tucked herself into the crook of her husband's arm, her head ducking with an uncharacteristic shyness. Drawing her in close as if to protect her from prying eyes, the young king appeared more content than anyone had ever seen him. They both swayed slightly to the music. It seemed that the two were in their own little world and nothing could disturb it, not even a room full of their subjects.

It was rather… daring to do that sort of thing in so public a space. But Benfred was almost a little _impressed_.

Out of all their group, it was Ashwood who interrupted their gobsmacked silence with a cackle of mirth. They all turned to the usually-quiet man. “I don’t think the Queen and King will have _any_ problems in their marriage-bed or out of it, lads.”

And he couldn’t help but agree with a chortle. He reckoned the two of them would be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know, this was written on a whim. if you read it, thanks a bunch. <strike>in case it wasn't obvious, galbraith and benfred are going to fall in LOVE-love.</strike>

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback is a gift.
> 
> (Charlie Hunnam is my cast for Tallhart, and I'm really happy about that fact lmfao. Cavill is Ryswell.)


End file.
